A Fairly Odd Event
by Little Red1
Summary: Harry is unexpectedly cornered without his glasses, without his wand, and clad only in a towel with a bottle of shampoo to defend himself. Sounds like a party. [ slash HxD, one-shot ]


by Chloe  
pg-13  
some harry/draco!   
  
- - -   
All seekers are blessed with speed and unnatural airborne grace, most have keener vision than average, and many have reflexes that seem preemptive. However, some seekers, the truly blessed, have an uncanny ability to remember. They remember the position of each player at each moment. They can recall every play of every game they ever played. They know from where the snitch zoomed when it was finally caught in their sweat stained gloved palm. Muggles call it a photographic memory, Wizards call it luck.   
  
  
+  
  
  
In the mirror, the locker room looks empty; but mirrors, you have learned, can lie. In the glass, your skin looks far too flushed, even after just flying on the pitch for solitary practice. Your hair has grown too long, but something keeps your from cutting it. It falls into your eyes, hides your marred forehead and curls down into the collar of your robes. Hermione says it suits you, but sometimes you're certain that she would say a potato sack suits you, should you be so inclined to wear one.   
  
  
You use the mirror to glance around the bathroom again. It's still empty. Had you wanted to, you could've simply called up the memory from looking at it a moment ago. If you were dragged from the locker room and told to recite its contents at memory for your life, you'd have been able to do it. And you wouldn't have left out where Oliver Wood carved "Oliver and Perce 4-Ever," even though it rather makes you want to retch.   
  
  
The locker room is a damp, old ordeal, and showering in it is a pain. Although something about it speaks of ages past, of lost generations and their glorious Quidditch players. England and Scotland's best have stood naked within these walls. You feel proud to stand nude with their memories, even if it is drafty.   
  
  
You give the room another shifty once over. Something is making you decidedly uncomfortable, but you're not sure what, and you undress anyway. Naked, you take time putting all of your padding away properly and dumping your practice robes neatly into the linens basket so to perhaps make things simpler for the house elves. It's a fleeting desire and a stupid one, but often you forget that they don't mind caring for the students. Or their smelly Quidditch wear.   
  
  
You grab a towel and a change of clothes, leave them on the bench outside the shower, and almost forget to take your glasses off. You're like that, you forget inane things, but never the important.   
  
  
You are happily soaping yourself into a bubbly froth-ball, when you hear the first noise. It's low, it nearly sounds like someone crying, but partially it sounds like someone murmuring endearments to a child.   
  
  
Over the sound of rushing water it comes again and your ears audibly prick up, like a canine. You feel nearly helpless, wand and glasses sitting on the bench with a fresh change of clothes. Is this it? You wonder frantically. All Voldemort had to do was catch me in the shower? You can't get your glasses or your wand, because that would force you out into the open, defenseless. Hastily, you grab a bottle of shampoo and prepare to defend yourself against peeping-toms and Dark Lords alike.   
  
  
Quietly and hesitantly, you pull back the wooden shower door and the noise comes again. It is distinctly whiney. It is most definitely not crying, but more crooning. Crooning in an obsequious manner. You raise an eyebrow, and decide that it's safe to grab your glasses and perhaps a towel. Yes, a towel would be nice. Glasses on, towel wrapped securely around yourself, you start toward the back of the room. Toward the Slytherin lockers. Inside, some part of you is praying that it's not something horribly unimaginable –like a meeting of the Draco Malfoy Fan Club.   
  
  
You round the last row of lockers, painted forest green and alternating silver. And there, sitting on the bench, in lovely pressed black school robes is Malfoy himself. Looking in the mirror. Talking to his reflection. First you cringe, and then realize that you are the one dripping wet in only a towel with a bottle of hair product clutched in your hand like a weapon of doom. For a moment, you're not sure who is crazier, or if this really is a meeting of the Malfoy fan club. With its only member.   
  
  
Instead you decide to politely clear your throat. This says a lot; considering it's Malfoy you've found displaying his insanity. At the sound he turns and nearly falls off the bench.   
  
  
"Potter," he says with a slight lip twist, recovering all too quickly and standing.  
  
  
You raise an eyebrow and he follows your gaze to the gilded mirror he's holding in one hand. He sets it down on the bench, and raises an eyebrow at you. Suddenly self-conscious, you wrap your towel a bit tighter and Malfoy leers.   
  
  
"Having a tryst with your only admirer?" You ask flippantly, and Malfoy doesn't even take the bait. Instead he has the indecency to step closer and you wonder how long he's been in the locker room when you step back.   
  
  
"Hardly a tryst, just a discussion of mutual infatuation." He smiles at you, all pointed glittery teeth and false charm. You'd punch him if you weren't so busy trying to hold up your towel.   
  
  
"Sounds like a lovely time, you must invite me to your next meeting." You drop the shampoo bottle and Malfoy watches it roll away. Verbal banter seems much harder when nearly naked and Malfoy doesn't seem fazed at all. He actually seems… amiable. No, not amiable, your brain amends, more wolfish, predatory.  
  
  
He inches toward you some more and this time his smile is entirely lascivious. "Oh, certainly. I wouldn't dream of leaving you off the invitation list," he says and it rolls off his tongue like caramel, like chocolate, like sweet things that are inevitably bad for you.   
  
  
You gather your towel even tighter and your hair is beginning to curl into a wild mess, you didn't have a chance to condition it. But it doesn't matter, because Draco Malfoy is rapidly advancing toward you and the only direction is backwards and into one of the shower stalls.  
  
  
Shit, your brain tells you. Shit, shit, shit. Harry, you are stuck in shower stall. And Draco Malfoy, who absolutely hates you by the way, is standing in the doorway like a lion that's caught its prey. You blink furiously, and Malfoy, who is Mr. Cool inclines his head toward one side like he expects you to ask him something.   
  
  
"Yes?" He says, and it's not really a question.  
  
  
"Um…wh-why're we in the shower?" You ask lamely, and Draco just favors you with another pointed grin and an imperceptible shrug. Welcome to Bizzaro Land, Harry Potter— where Draco Malfoy is the big bad wolf, capable and ready to force unwilling virgins to submit to his every whim.   
  
  
"And reality has gone where?" You raise both eyebrows and Draco's razor-sharp smile seems to soften into bemusement.   
  
  
"Well, you caught me talking to my reflection and now I have you trapped in a shower stall. In a towel. And I'm pretty evil. Any questions?"   
  
  
"Are you really pretty evil?"   
  
  
"Not quite as evil as everyone thinks, but it gets me free stuff," he smirks and you bite back laughter.   
  
  
"Right then, continue on." So you've forfeited reality and when you leave the locker room it will hit you like a sack of pumpkins, especially when Ron asks how you got such a massive hickey on your inner thigh. Not that Ron sees your inner thighs, but after today anything seems possible.   
  
  
Draco nods, letting the door fall shut and gets even closer. You are both in pitch darkness and once he's nearly an inch from you and your towel is damper where you've been clutching it, he pulls out his wand and whispers "lumos." Soft blue light illuminates the shower and he sets his wand on the soap holder.   
  
  
For a moment, in the soft azul light, you think he looks beautiful. But not beautiful like a girl. Beautiful like a boy with pale skin and Elvin fine features out of a Muggle novel, with blond hair haloed in blue and eyes so light you can your own reflection in the silver.   
  
  
Draco, you realize, must be studying you too, because the silence has lapsed on and he hasn't moved. This, you also realize, is probably what people call a moment. But before you blink it's over, because Draco has a hand on one side of your body and the other is fingering the fabric of your towel so lightly you didn't even notice.   
  
  
"Is there a chance," you say, looking for the right words, "that this is all a bit of fun to see how much you can scare me and you're just going to let me leave now?"   
  
  
"Nope." He regards you casually, the hand near your head moving to tangle in your already untamable hair.   
  
  
"Malfoy," you mutter through clenched teeth and try not to relax into his caressing hand. "If punching you didn't mean dropping my towel, know that I would do so without thinking twice."   
  
  
"You could," he drawls, "drop your towel and punch me. If that would make you feel better, maybe up your self-esteem a bit."   
  
  
You glower at him from beneath your bangs and the hand on your towel begins to slowly try and tug it from your grasp. "Dinner and a movie," you say suddenly and he pulls his hand away and stares at you.  
  
  
"What?"   
  
  
"Never mind."  
  
  
You close your eyes and put his hand back where it was—slipping up your torso to your chest. He leans in and presses his face into the nape of your neck, and you can feel him smile against your skin. You're taller than Malfoy, but he's slimmer then you, although you never really noticed before. Probably because before this there were always fists in the way of your eyes when you were so close to him.   
  
  
Unconsciously you let the towel drop to wrap an arm around Malfoy's waist while he does horribly wicked little things to your throat. It's not until he pressed a black clad leg between your own bare ones that you realize that you're more undressed then you've ever been with someone and that Malfoy is entirely clothed. Bastard.   
  
  
You pull away and slip his robe off his shoulders, smirk inwardly when it falls to the rather unsavory floor of the shower and then he takes off his own jumper and you sort of want to smile at all that pale skin winking at you in the blue dark. Instead you crouch and lick a path from his navel to his right nipple and wonder where your sanity went, or at least your modesty.   
  
  
Draco rewards you with a moan lower than you thought he was capable of and you find yourself once again pressed to the wall of the shower, Draco's hands roaming down your sides, skidding up your inner thighs, touching you wherever there is skin to be touched. And you seem to have so much skin.   
  
  
He's all lips and teeth and little cat-like flicks of tongue in all the right places and you remember that you haven't kissed him yet. With an entirely ungentle tug you grasp his hair in hand (silky, far too soft to the touch, like water slipping through reeds, light through slanted curtains, time through glittering specks of stars…ahem.) and make sure your eyes meet before you kiss him.   
  
  
You see him well enough in the dark that sliver eyes flecked with black and lust are imprinted on your lids when you close them.   
  
  
The kiss lasts longer, is more passionate and slightly more uncomfortable and messy than any other kiss you've had before. When he draws away and his lips are swollen red and fascinating, you think you may have bitten him, but if he says anything you'll say it was part of your masterful technique. Right.   
  
  
You curve your lips into a half-smile and Malfoy purses his lovely, swollen ones.   
  
  
"Not half bad, Potter," he says. And you narrow your eyes. He licks his lips and you really do want to bite them.  
  
  
"Yeah?"   
  
  
"Sure."   
  
  
And he's kissing you again, and this time it's better and maybe a bit less awkward because there's a rhythm to it. A sort of push and pull that you recognize matches the thrusting of your hips against his, and his against yours. It's this contact that drives you to start undoing the buckle in the shape of a snake on Malfoy's slacks. It's the way Malfoy's tongue in your ear is the most… incredible and yet strangely repulsive thing you've ever felt. The way his hands make you shiver.  
  
  
You get the buckle open, and Malfoy's pants fall to his ankles along with his boxers and you both sigh. His lips meet yours again and you swallow each other's keening sounds.   
  
  
Most importantly, you conclude, if slightly incoherently, it's the way reality doesn't have to matter much because things like this don't happen everyday. And if they do, you haven't been having the right sort of days. But if they don't, which you suspect, you will remember every moment of this with blessed clarity.   
  
  
End. 


End file.
